


Ghosts

by islandgirl



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl/pseuds/islandgirl
Summary: His place is haunted. Every where he looks he can see ghosts of all those that had come into his life then disappeared.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is speculative based on the promo for 2x19 “Medicate and Isolate”. This story contains subjects (suicide and death) that may be sensitive to some individuals.

His place is haunted, Clay realizes. It's silent, like a tomb. Dusk has fallen, the last vestiges of sunlight barely breaking through the blinds, casting the room in gray shadows. Every where he looks he can see ghosts of all those that had come into his life then disappeared. Brian, Stella, Bravo, ... Swanny. As he stands in the doorway of his own apartment, he has to repress the desire to turn tail and run. There's nothing here that feels normal anymore. It doesn't feel like a home or a place of refuge; it's a crypt. He's not sure what to do or where to go from here.

He lied to Swanny when he said he didn't keep pictures of old girlfriends around. Well, it wasn't a complete lie; he only kept one. There was one picture of Stella, taken the night of her party, that he kept in a frame, tucked away in his nightstand drawer. He tells himself its because Brian's in it too, that it's the last picture ever taken of him, just hours before he died, but that's a lie. Brian's not the focus, he's in the background, semi-visible. No, he kept that picture because that was the Stella he loved, so light and happy, unburdened by his life.

Even if that picture wasn't around though, he can still feel her here. He can see her sitting on the couch, feet tucked up under her as she reads. He can hear her laughing in the kitchen as she tries and fails to make pancakes yet again. She's everywhere. Curled up on the bed, head resting on his chest as they drift to sleep; sitting at the counter with her laptop in front of her, a small wrinkle on her forehead as she grades papers; standing by the window with a cup of coffee in her hands as the morning light streams through the window. All of her stuff may be gone, her scent washed out of his sheets a dozen times over, but their past still lives here, taking up space, replaying over and over again.

Brian's ghost haunts these halls too. How could he not when Clay's got all of his stuff. It's not like he had a lot to begin with. He'd told Clay all his stuff was in storage at his mom's place. It wasn't until Clay went with Adam to make the notification that he realized Brian had no family, no storage locker with all his worldly possessions locked up safe until he passed Green Team. Brian had a duffle bag with a few dog-eared paperbacks, a handful of clothes, and one picture so creased and worn the image is barely visible anymore. Anything that meant anything to his best friend was now stuffed in the back of his closet, a visual reminder every day of how quickly life could slip through your fingers.

The last vestiges of his life on the teams still hangs around, haunting him too. He tried to tuck it all away, burying it in a bag in the back of his closest with Brian's things. Hoped that by not staring at it every day, he wouldn't have their ghosts here as well. Distance has helped only a little, not having them constantly around and in his space as a constant reminder of what he might lose. It doesn't matter how far back he shoves it all, though, he can never escape the reality that he may never be an operator again. He's greeted by that fact every morning when he goes to get out of bed and sees the still healing scars on his legs. The Bravo team flag is the only item to remain, still hanging over his bed because Swanny insisted it stay.

Fucking Swanny.

Clay leans back against the wall as everything crashes over him. Fucking Swanny. His legs tremble and that's the only warning he gets before his knees buckle. He slides to the floor, cursing his weak body. He tries to hold on tight to the anger because it's easier to deal with than anything deeper. The bastard, how could he? Clay's hands tremble as the unbidden thought breaks through. He shakes his head, can't deal with all that now.

He tries to take a deep breath, but it freezes in his chest, lungs refusing to expand. This can't be happening, Clay thinks, pressing his forehead to his knees. This can't be real. Any moment now, Swanny is going to come out of the bathroom spouting some crazy story about his time on the teams to bolster Clay's resolve.

Only ... he never does.

He won't, ever again.

Clay feels his eyes start to burn, chest constricting with the emotions he doesn't want to name, doesn't want to feel. He can't do this right now. If he names it, if he acknowledges it, it's game over. His life has already been flipped upside down enough, he's not sure he can deal with anymore.

Fucking Swanny.

He should have known better, Clay thinks to himself. He should have seen the signs, should have stayed his ass home and canceled PT for the day. Then he would've been here, he could have done something ... done anything to change the outcome. After Swanny's outburst at the hospital, he should have known this was coming. He never did though and ended up blindsided.

 

* * *

  


Clay nudges the door closed behind him, stopping for a moment to lean his head back and let his body rest. He probably should've taken the elevator after therapy, but he'd wanted to push himself, to prove that he could do it. Now he's regretting that bullheaded choice as his legs quiver with exhaustion. Pushing himself up from wall, he's surprised by how quiet it is. It's almost too quiet. The calm before a storm, the stillness that settles over a forest before danger approaches, the quiet breath before a scream. Clay's skin prickles with anticipation, awareness heightened as he glances around the apartment.

Nothing is out of place. It all looks exactly as it should ... except for the bright orange sticky note on the counter. The breakfast dishes are washed and sitting in the drying rack, today's newspaper and mail stacked neatly on the counter. Everything appears fine, except Clay can feel that it isn't. Where is Swanny? Usually, the minute Clay's key is in the lock the man seems to appear, eager to help and ask a dozen different questions. How did therapy go? Does he want a drink? Is he in pain? Does he need his pain meds? Does he want a sandwich? Any thoughts on dinner? What exercises did he do today? Any improvements? Setbacks? That's the normal now, except Swanny isn't here badgering him.

Trying to shake off the uneasy feeling, Clay tells himself he's overthinking it. Swanny does have his own life that doesn't revolve around Clay, even though it seemed that way most of the time. Maybe he had an interview, Clay thinks to himself. He had been talking about a new paramedic gig a few days ago. Or maybe he went for a walk or finally run to the store like he said he was going to do every day for the last week. Except Swanny's keys and wallet are sitting innocently on the kitchen counter next to his cell phone. Swanny wouldn't go anywhere without them.

His eyes once again drift to the note in the middle of the counter. Swanny had torn down his colorful masterpiece when Clay came home from the hospital and he hasn't seen any sight of them again ... until right now. He reaches for it and sees two simple words scribbled there in Swanny's chicken-scratch.

_I'm sorry._

It feels like the world falls out from under him, the note falling from his fingers. He grabs on to the edge of the counter to hold himself upright as his knees suddenly go weak. This time it has nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the sudden anxiety gripping him. His mind is spinning in a thousand different directions, but one thought is clear above all else. Find Swanny.

Where could he be? Clay's eyes land on the keys laying on the counter and know that Swanny couldn't have gone too far. Clay unclenches his fingers from around the counter and stumbles away. He's sliding his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone as he rounds the corner, the sight before him making him freeze in his tracks.

Ahead of him, poking out of the bathroom doorway, is a pair of well-worn boots.

"Swanny?!"

Clay staggers forward. He latches on to the doorway to hold himself upright, the sight before him making his knees quake. Swanny is facedown on the bathroom floor in a pool of vomit. There are pill bottles scattered everywhere, most of them empty.

"Fuck, Swanny," Clay gasps out, reaching for his cell phone as he drops to his knees next to the man. He doesn't remember much of his call to 911 beyond stumbling through the basic information. Male, late 50s, overdose, and rattling off his address. He's not sure what else they might have asked him or what they told him, Clay was too focused on Swanny.

He reaches out and feels for a pulse. Finding none, Clay uses every ounce of strength he has and rolls the man over. It's not an easy feat, Clay being weakened from injury and trying to move them both in such a tight space. He does it though, ignoring the way his knees slide in the pool of sick.  He leans over, trying to hear if Swanny is breathing. He's so pale he's almost translucent, nose and mouth covered in vomit.

Clay uses the edge of his shirt and clears out Swanny's airways and positions the man's head, hoping it'll be enough to get him breathing again. Nothing happens.

"You don't get to give up," Clay growls out as he starts compressions. Each one requires a full body effort and after only a few, Clay's breaking out in a sweat, losing his breath. He doesn't give up though, doesn't stop the chest compressions even when he hears someone coming into the apartment. He only moves his hands when a paramedic is guiding him out of the way.

"What did he take?" they ask.

"I don't know," Clay tells them dumbly, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom to catch his breath as they get to work.

"How long ago?"

"I don't know," his breath hitches in his chest.

Clay watches as they get Swanny on the gurney, still trying to start his heart. He was still warm to the touch so it gives Clay some hope that they can turn this around, that they can pull Swanny back. As they take him out of the apartment, Clay snaps back to himself. He drags his body up and he gathers up every pill bottle he can find in the bathroom. Swanny had been serious about it, Clay realizes as he picks up the seventh bottle. He'd taken all of his meds, ones Clay knows for sure were just filled a week ago. He'd torn in to Clay's meds too, he realizes with a jolt seeing his name on the bottle. Muscle relaxers, pain meds, anti-anxiety meds, sleeping pills ... everything Clay had come home from the hospital with and refused to use.

Sitting in the hospital waiting room is surreal. He watches everything happening around him and feels so disconnected. He tries to call Jason, desperate to have someone, anyone, in this with him because he feels like he's drowning. Jason doesn't answer though, probably can't Clay realizes with a sharp pang of loneliness. Clay doesn't try anyone else, just sits in silence, hands clenched between his knees, and waits.

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry," the doctor tells him quietly. "He didn't make it. We were unable to resuscitate him. I'm very sorry for your loss."

Clay hears the words, but is having trouble comprehending them. He blinks at the doctor, the urge to ask him to repeat it on the tip of his tongue, when it finally sinks in. Swanny is dead. Swanny killed himself. Swanny waited until Clay left, swallowed all the pills in the bathroom cabinet, and died in Clay's bathroom, leaving only a post-it note behind.

His breath catches in his chest and for one terrifying instant, Clay's potential future becomes crystal clear; a world of pain and anger, living in the past because there is nothing for him in the present. He shakes his head to dispel the image. The doctor is still talking to him in soft tones, saying things like next of kin and release the body, but Clay can't follow what the man is saying at this point.

"What?" Clay finally forces out, cutting the doctor off.

The man gives Clay a sympathetic smile, lays a hand on his arm gently. "Do you have any contact information for Mr. Swann's next of kin? We need to make notification and get permission to release the body for burial.”

It's a simple enough question, but it has Clay freezing in place. He has no idea. In fact, he knows very little about Swanny. Doesn't know his birthday or his middle name or where he grew up. The only things Clay knows about the man are contained in stories from his time in the field, that he was a hard-core operator, he was a problem solver, a true pipe-hitter, a rock solid teammate. A brother. None of those things are going to help him now though. 

He racks his tired brain, trying desperately to think of any nugget of information that would prove helpful. Maybe someone from the team would know, but Clay can't get a hold of them now. The image of Swanny's cellphone sitting on the counter provides Clay a spark of hope. Maybe something or someone in there can be of help.

"I have his wallet and phone in my car," Clay finally tells the doctor. 

He's glad he had the foresight to snag them off the counter before he'd dashed out of the apartment. As he opens the car door, his eyes land on the bag of empty pill bottles on the front seat. Bile rises in the back of his throat. He presses his hands to the top of the car, closing his eyes against the sight, and takes a few deep breaths. This is not the time or the place, he tells himself. Just keep it together. Reaching blindly for the glovebox, Clay grabs the phone and wallet and makes his way back inside.

Clay can feel eyes glancing in his direction then skirting away as he weaves through the hallways. He must look awful, he realizes. He'd come in from therapy a sweaty mess and now he's covered in dried vomit and limping his exhausted body along. He keeps his head down until he reaches the nurse's station once again, the doctor waiting for him.

The doctor gives him a sympathetic smile as he slides paperwork in front of Clay. He fills them out the best he can, copying down the information from Swanny's license and leaving the rest blank. He scrolls through the man's contacts, unsure of who might be the best person to call. Finally, he settles for opening his text messages and finds the last person Swanny had text. Ruby. The message was sent today, a quick _I'm sorry for everything_  that hits Clay like a punch to the gut. He briefly remembers Swanny mentioning his "old lady" kicking him out and, scrolling through the rest of the messages, realizes this must be who he was talking about. Swanny only made two goodbyes; to her and to Clay.

His hand shakes as he scribbles down her name and number on the contact form and hands it off. The doctor is signing a form when Clay steps up to him. His eyes catch on the top of the paper. A Death Certificate. Clay's blows out a breath as his eyes skim over the information. Manner of Death: Suicide.

There it is, laid out in black and white. No minced words, not sugarcoating it. Suicide. Swanny just became another statistic. A number people will state and shake their heads in sympathy, never truly understanding why. 

Clay feels his legs go weak at the sight of those words. Swanny committed suicide. He grips the edge of the counter hard to keep himself upright. The doctor is back, voice nothing but white-noise filling up his head. Everything else is a blur.


	2. Chapter 2

He watches as the clock ticks over from 0359 to 0400. A sigh slips passed his lips as he adjusts himself on the couch once again, not able to find a completely comfortable position. He's not sure how long he's beenawake now, just that once again sleep has evaded him. His body itches to get up and move, an urge he barely represses. One look at the kid's closed bedroom door keeps him in place. He doesn't need to add on to the misery the kid is currently in. Shifting once again, Swanny recalls the dark circles under the kid's eyes the last week, the exhaustion evident in every line of his body. Clay's been silent about his anguish, keeping it bottled up inside, but Swanny could see it in the kid's eyes. He looked broken, lost, haunted.  


Swanny understood it, as well as anyone could. There were few people around that could fathom what the kid was going through right now. He knows the guys on Bravo are trying to encourage the kid, keeping his spirits up every time they talk to him, but they can't fully understand it. It's not their fault, it's just circumstance. They don't know what it's like to have their life change in an instant, to have the one thing they loved most in the world, a piece of themselves, ripped away. They don’t understand the mind games you have to play with yourself to get up in the morning, the strength you have to muster up on a daily basis to look at your own body, to try and make peace with the scars and sudden limitations, your body betraying every minute of conditioning you'd put it through. Swanny might not have had his legs blown apart like the kid, but he got where Clay was coming from better than most. 

Every day was a battle, no end to the war in sight.

It's not Swanny's body that's betraying him so much as his brain. The very center of his being is his biggest problem ... or at least that's what he thinks. No one knows for sure. No one seems to care enough to figure it out either. They just want to treat the symptoms, the issues that pop up and interrupt everyday life, so that he can go back to having a "relatively normal life". Like what the fuck does that even mean? 

He tells them he has a headache, they give him pain meds. Trouble sleeping? They've got a pill for that. Mood swings? Pill. Anxiety? Pill. He's got so many medicine bottles rattling around in his backpack he sounds like a damn mobile pharmacy. 

His world wasn't blown apart like Clay's, instead it was slipping away from him a little at a time, like sand slipping though his fingers. He used to be able to hold on and keep most of it together. As time's gone on though, he's started to lose his grip and it's slipping away from him faster and faster. He's not the man he used to be, not someone he even recognizes in the mirror anymore. The Swanny that was only lives in stories now, a man of myth and legends, never to be seen again. 

When he'd first gotten the call from Jason, it shames him to admit it, but it'd been the first sign of life flickering within him for months. Clay had given him a place to live and a new hope that things could work out and for a few days it had been good. He woke up each day with the thought that today was the day things would turn around. He had a job interview, he had a place to stay, he had people around him he could count on; it was a fresh start and it was good. Then, like always, it had turned to shit again. The memory lapses resurfaced and along with it came the mood swings and anxiety. It felt awful to think it, but having something to do, someone to look after, gave him purpose again.

"I'll take care of him," he'd promised Jason. And he had. 

He got up every morning with no hesitation, ate a quick breakfast, showered, and left for the hospital. He stayed by Clay's side as long as they would let him, from the start of visiting hours until the very end of them. For the first few days the kid was unconscious, but it didn't matter. Swanny would sit with him, read to him from the newspaper or turn on the ballgame and commentate to the silent room. Once Clay finally regained consciousness, Swanny doubled his efforts, seeing the depression settling in the kid's face. He brought cards up to play, brought Clay magazines and puzzle books, he talked to the kid about anything and everything except life on the teams. When Clay finally started rehab, Swanny tagged along, pushing the kid like he was back in BUD/s.

He even came up with a system so that he wouldn't forget anything. He stopped at the store and bought a giant pack of sticky notes and a marker and plastered them all over the apartment. Turn off the stove. Car key? Phone? Lock the door. All little reminders, things he usually forgets to do when his mind slips away from him. He created a schedule on the cabinets of what meds to take and when. It wasn’t the prettiest of systems or the most organized, but it worked for him and that's all that matters.

And for a while, Swanny's mind settled. He went home, to Clay's home, and settled into a deep sleep every night, exhausted from the sheer act of trying to bolster the kid. He thought he was turning a corner. With something to focus on and pour all his energy into, the nightmare that had become his life slowly faded to the back of his mind. As the kid got better, however, Swanny could feel himself backsliding. The more independent Clay was, the less he needed Swanny. The less he needed Swanny, the more Swanny pulled back into his shell.

It had finally come to a head yesterday when they went to the hospital. Clay, in his own quiet way, was trying to support him back and Swanny appreciated it. He truly did. It'd been a while since he had someone, anyone, really care about his well being. It wasn't easy though, letting the kid witness all of that. Clay was used to the state-of-the-art hospital and rehab facility he was treated at, not the VA where the rest of the vets were treated. He could tell it was a bit of a shell-shock for the kid to see the homeless and down on their luck hanging around outside and the long lines to check in at every point. More than all of that, though, he hated to show the kid all his cards. Swann liked to play the hand he was dealt close to the chest, not letting anyone else really see what was going on. With Clay by his side though, he had no choice but to lay it all out.

When the doctor told him there was no way to get him an MRI, Swanny felt like his world was crumbling around him. After everything, all the research and appointments, after the psych visits and the countless pills, this was not where he wanted it to end. He’d been slugging through this for months now, the only reason he could put one foot in front of the other sometimes was with the hope of finally getting confirmation, finally getting treatment. With one simple word, his world came crashing down.

There would be no treatment for him, no fixing this … broken thing inside of him. Instead he’d be given pill after pill to alleviate his symptoms as they popped up. He would never get better. In fact, he’d only get worse and worse. He can’t take much more of this. Put him in a war zone and he can take anything you throw at him, but this? This was too much. He refused to waste away, to lose his mind completely. There was an end in sight after all.

One look at the kid and he knew Clay wasn't about to give up. Clay was just naive enough, just stubborn enough, just hopeful enough, to think he could be the game-changer, that he could make this right. That spark of hope felt like a dagger in Swanny's chest. Clay just didn't understand. This wasn't something they could fight and win. Swanny was already fighting a losing battle with his damaged brain, he had no energy left to take on the VA as well. There's nothing left for him. His only hope is that maybe, by his sacrifice, he can change someone else's life, that he can save someone else's life. 

He's already made up his mind about what is going to happen.

Glancing at the clock again, Swanny watches as the time edges ever closer and closer to the time he's set in his mind, 0630. That's the time Clay has been starting to move around in his room for the last few weeks so Swanny forces himself to stay still and stare at the ceiling until then. As soon as the clock hits 0630, Swanny tosses his blanket to the side and pushes himself up from the cushions. He already has the rest of his day planned out. Clay has to leave by 0900 for his physical therapy appointment so Swanny is going to make sure the kid is taken care of one last time. He also knows that Clay doesn't get back until after 1100 so it gives him plenty of time to get the job done before the kid gets back.

There's a peace that settles over him as Swanny opens the blinds, letting the early morning light spill in. He moves to the kitchen and starts a fresh pot of coffee, taking the time to measure it carefully, wanting it to be just right. Once it starts bubbling and perking, Swanny heads towards Clay's room and listens for any sign of movement. Hearing none, he raps his fist against the door.

"Time to get a move on, kid," Swanny calls out, listening for the rustling of sheets. It takes a minute, but eventually he hears movement on the other side of the door.

He's already got a cup of coffee poured and waiting for Clay when he steps out of his room a few minutes later. He looks rough to Swanny, still stuck in his head and not sleeping enough by the looks of the dark circles under his eyes. Clay's closing himself off and there's not much Swanny can do for him anymore. He presses the mug of coffee into Clay's hands before turning back to the ingredients on the counter.

"Did I ever tell you about the time we got pinned down in the Tribals?" Swanny asks, cracking eggs and dropping them into a bowl. 

Clay settles onto a stool at the counter, sipping his coffee and appearing only halfway alert. It doesn't matter though, Swanny thinks, whisking the eggs. If only some of it permeates the kid's mind, that's what counts. It's a story just like a hundred others he's told. Their team gets pinned down, no comms, no QRF, but through sheer stubbornness and badassery, they pull themselves out of that shithole and make it to their exfil mostly intact. It's not that story he wants Clay to remember, but the moment. If anything sticks with Clay, he wants the kid to remember him as a SEAL, a natural born operator, not the shell of a man he'd become.

The eggs are a little burnt and the toast is definitely burnt, but Clay doesn't comment on it. He eats his breakfast, drinks his coffee, then disappears to get a shower. Swanny takes great care in cleaning up the kitchen, returning everything back the way it should be. By the time Clay reappears, Swanny is leaning against the counter waiting for him.

"I'm heading out for PT," Clay tells him, picking up his keys from the counter. "I'll see ya in a few hours."

Swanny steps forward and gives the kid's shoulder a squeeze. He stares a Clay for a moment, a warm smile on his face. He wants to tell Clay how much their friendship has meant to him. It's a little odd and build around necessity, but it was a friendship all the same. Clay, for a small moment of time, had saved him from his failing mind, had given him a mission, made him an operator again. He wants to thank Clay for that, but can't, just hopes this moment will be enough.

"Take care of yourself kid," Swanny tells him instead.

Clay's brow furrows in confusion before he nods. "You too, Swanny," Clay tells him before he disappears out the door.

He waits. Waits until he sees Clay's car pull out of the parking lot. Waits a few minutes to be sure he isn't going to show back up. The last thing he wants is for the kid to walk in in the middle of his end. He doesn't want to hurt the kid anymore than he has to. He hates that it has to be here, in the kid's apartment, but he has nowhere else to go, knows if he up and disappeared, the kid would never stop looking for him. As it is, he's sure Clay is going to question what's happened, wonder how he could've fixed it, that's just the kind of person he is. Swanny wants to make this as quick, clean, and painless as possible for the kid. 

Grabbing the pad of sticky notes out of the drawer, Swanny contemplates what to write. A thousand thoughts run through his head, but they all come down to the same thing. 

'I'm sorry’.

He adheres the note to the middle of the counter where the kid will see it, then moves on. He lines his wallet and keys up on the counter for easy access. Holding his phone in his hand, Swanny stares at it for moment in contemplation. There's only one other person he wants to say goodbye to. Typing out a quick message to her, Swanny places the phone on the counter. 

He steps into the bathroom and stares at his face in the mirror one last time. The person he sees reflected back at him is a complete stranger to him. Once he was an operator, a pipe-hitter, a knuckle-dragger, a problem-solver, a shooter. He was the best of the best, at the top of his game, performing dangerous feats in the name of god and country. The teams were his life and his life was the teams. There was no separating the two. Now though, he's slowly dying from these invisible wounds, from damage to his brain no one can see and no one knows are there but him. 

Turning away from his reflection, Swanny pulls open the medicine cabinet and stares at the plethora of orange pills bottles staring back at him. They thought they could solve his problems with pills so that's how he was going to finally put a stop to it. He left very specific instructions for what was to happen next. If they couldn't help him when he was alive, maybe his body could help others avoid the same fate. There has to be an end to it, to the suffering and the pain. Let it start with him. 

Picking up the first bottle, Swanny stares at the label for a moment before popping the cap off. Taking a deep breath, he taps a few out into his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments and kudos on the first chapter. I apologize for taking so long in getting this next part to you. I had most of the story done before 219 aired, but after watching Swanny's story, I decided it was too important to leave out. So I've been making some tweaks and re-editing the last few parts. Thank you for reading!


End file.
